


Spite is the Silent Killer

by theinvalidedsoldier



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anger, Angst, Drug Use, Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Gen, John is a Bit Not Good, Violence, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-04-18 08:37:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14209320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theinvalidedsoldier/pseuds/theinvalidedsoldier
Summary: If Sherlock had died on the day that his doctor beat him.





	Spite is the Silent Killer

**Author's Note:**

> TW: // This fic contains very graphic depictions of violence, and suffocation. It depicts an all too familiar scenario between Sherlock and John, if John had gone that bit too far. 
> 
> I had thought of this idea for a story nearly straight after I watched The Lying Detective. I hope you all enjoy it, as it’s my first fic.
> 
> Also, please excuse any mistakes. Constructive criticism is always welcome!

  John was fuming, seething, absolutely irrevocably furious. The audacity of the scruffy and drugged up detective was twisting his nerves and completely obliterating any sense of patience he had hoped to replenish. 

  Sherlock had bombarded into his therapists house - more like, was abducted and brought against his own will - and continued to mediate the utmost control over every aspect of John’s life.

  “You’re a Doctor, examine me,” Sherlock had said, with his arms outstretched, and eyes staring directly into John’s. John had to battle back an ounce of concern for the lying, deceitful prick in front of him. He did look completely and utterly out of it. Track marks littered his arms, and a sigh was torn from John’s usually barricaded façade.  _‘For fuck sake, Sherlock,’_ John had thought to himself.  _‘Stop. Stop making this harder.’_ So John had agreed, albeit incredibly reluctantly, so much so that it was practically non-consensual. Not that his input was ever actually needed.

  He had been lugged all the way to a hospital, in which he learned that Culverton had been a prime donor for one of the large wings. John had a slight distrust for the man, as his eerie smile, and high pitched voice sent a slight shiver down his spine. But even so, it didn’t justify an ex - well, practically an ex - renowned detective, turned super junkie accusing you of being a psychopathic serial killer. John could feel his blood boiling the entire ride up, as it had been revealed only a few minutes prior that Sherlock had anticipated his exact location with a therapist he hadn’t even hired yet, two weeks before the entire debacle happened. It was yet another reminder of how incompetent and practically brain-dead John was in comparison to his friend. If _friend_ was even the correct term. Even on hard drugs Sherlock always seemed ready to dazzle and impress, ready to make you feel like a four year old in a matter of seconds. And if that didn’t make John want to throttle the man, he didn’t know what would.

  They were then introduced to Culverton himself. He was all smiles and hugs to them both, which was as surprising as it was mortifying. How dare Sherlock, how dare he make a mockery of the reputation he had made for both himself and John. The news outlets were everywhere, which was not even remotely surprising. The news that the once dead Sherlock Holmes, who remarkably bounced down a hill or some other bullshit when he jumped off of St. Bart’s, was now throwing career and life ruining accusations at one of Britain’s most beloved faces was stirring controversy nation wide. Which in turn, had John himself directly associated to whatever late night fantasy story Sherlock had come up with on a heroin bender.

  The high detective and his ex-blogger were introduced to the staff members of the hospital, where they also came into contact with many young kids. The insinuation that they were all a huge fan of  _Sherlock’s_ blog was pretty close to being the last straw for John, who was struggling to keep his ever diminishing composure. Culverton mediated an unsettling control over all of the members, which John found quite telling. But still, it wouldn’t be a surprise if such a rich and famous man would be at least a little power hungry.

  Sherlock continued on his endless tirade to get some form of a confession from Smith. This had John positively twitching with rage. Sherlock was cruel and relentless with the fact that whilst he was living out his dream case - an over dramatic, cynical display of Sherlock’s misanthropy personified - he was in turn, humiliating all of them. Smith then invited them both to his proclaimed favourite room in the hospital, the mortuary. Sherlock, for a reason that John couldn’t be arsed to delve into examining, looked undeniably smug at the invitation, and followed suit, beckoning John along. The fact that John was so directly comparable to the dog that Sherlock had brought to the Thatcher’s case those many weeks ago, was laughable. Sherlock and  _Mary - don’t think about it. -_ were fundamentally the perfect duo. While the two dogs stray behind. 

  It was in the mortuary, where Sherlock seemed to come to a conclusion; that he was right, when Faith Smith had come to visit on the invitation of Sherlock’s. After an incoherent mumbling of confused internal thoughts becoming external, Sherlock looked up at the three faces before him.

  John’s eyebrows furrowed in concern he couldn’t hope to mask when Sherlock’s hands started to violently shake at his realization that Faith Smith had never actually met him before. Sherlock crashed into a metal side table with a clang and continued to claw at his hair in disbelief. 

  “Sherlock,” John deadpanned, this isn’t good, “Sherlock, are you alright? Sherlock, are you okay?” Sherlock pointed an accusatory, shaky finger at Smith. Who stood stark still with what could’ve only be described as indifference. “He’s got a knife,” Sherlock said, eyes flashing, manic. Smith tilted his head mockingly, quite nastily actually. 

  “I’ve got a what?” Snipped his high pitched tone. “Got a scalpel, you picked it up from that table, I saw you take it.” Sherlock gestured towards the side table, the one he had previously crashed into. Culverton leant forwards, angrily exclaiming, “I certainly did not.”

  Havoc descended on the mortuary, as from an outsiders point of view, it would’ve seemed that the dead were coming back to life. “I saw you take it, I saw you!” Sherlock quipped, a scalpel residing in his own hands, pointing it threateningly at Smith. John’s body buzzed with adrenaline as he commanded Sherlock to put it down, but to no avail. His brain was a storm. Sherlock had to be joking, this had to be some fucking sick trick of his. John eyed the scalpel, shaking hands brandished it defensively.  _This is ridiculous._

Sherlock faltered, “Stop laughing at me,” He mumbled, breathily. John turned to look at a slightly amused Culverton, the joy he saw was slightly sickening, but he wasn’t laughing. “He’s not laughing Sherlock.” John stepped towards him with intent. This was a mistake, Sherlock charged forwards, scalpel at the ready. “Stop laughing at me!” He screamed. Snap, crackle, pop, bang. Whatever euphemism or metaphor you could’ve used. Gone was John’s final straw.

  John disarmed Sherlock swiftly, pushing him roughly into a metal door. “Stop it, stop it now.” There was dead silence in the room, as John could feel every pent up piece of hatred and regret getting eviscerated by the one-sided confrontation. “What are you doing?” John shouted, finally deciding to act on a resort that he had hoped to avoid. A slap to the face should’ve done it. “Wake up!” It wasn’t enough, not nearly enough. How dare he, how dare he, how dare he, how dare he fuck up his life even more than he’d already done. A slam to the side of his face with an enclosed fist.

  “Is this-“ Another punch, “A game?” John’s ears were pounding as he stared down at the completely submissive man at his feet. His rage wasn’t even red, he was so furious it was white, it was metallic, cold. “Is this a bloody game?” Just one more, one more. He deserves it.  _Stop this._ John kept going, taking perverse pleasure in the groans of pain from the slack junkie. The man who destroyed his life. The man who ruined any sense of normality that he used to have. The man who built him up, fixed him, to destroy him over and over again.

  Punches turned into kicks, fury fueled kicks with steel toes. He could feel a rib break underneath its hardship, but John persisted. Hatred coursed through his veins, and it took all of John’s will and brain-power to convince himself that it was towards Sherlock, and not infact self-hatred, and guilt for what happened to Mary. Sherlock attempted to stare up at John, attempted to warn him with a weak hand signaling stop. Sherlock’s eyes looked more dead than John’s, more tired, if that were even possible. This only riled John on more, the audacity of Sherlock once again trying to take control of a situation even in the state he was in was nearly laughable.  _Nearly._ What was supposed to be a kick to Sherlock’s left shoulder turned into a brute force directly into his trachea. John froze.  _Wait._

  Sherlock started to spasm. Choked breaths were attempted to be inhaled and exhaled, but a wheezing was only to be heard. He rose a hand, staring directly into John’s eyes. Pure panic, Sherlock was panicking. And if Sherlock was panicking, John was too. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, a rough gargle of what seemed to be, ‘John’ could be read from even the sloppiest of lip reading. Sherlock hyperventilated on the ground, or what would’ve been hyperventilating, if his windpipe had not been crushed. Dry heaves with no air escaped Sherlock’s lips, which John promptly noticed were turning an alarming shade of blue. 

  All anger disapperated from John’s body, as all he could feel was a cold finger of dread running down his spine. John very nearly stopped breathing himself, as Sherlock writhed on the floor, because of him. John was frozen, even as staff, maybe paramedics rushed in the door to Sherlock’s desperate body. John reached forwards, his hand grasping where Sherlock used to be, as he was now being carried off to an unknown location. “Sherlock,” John whispered, his eyes wide, his breathing shallow. After the initial shock wore off, John raced after the medical staff to catch up to his  _best friend._ Every part of John’s body now pounded, for a completely different reason. Panic. Desperate.  _What have you done?_  Up these steps, down these ones, left, right, over and back.

  John felt numb as he searched each room until - Sherlock’s body had been laid on top of a bed, he had been messily attached to a heart monitor. They all looked solemn. John couldn’t hear right, was he in a tunnel? There was an echoing long beep that was burrowing in the back of his head. What was that?

  They noticed John’s intrusion.  _No._ “He’s stopped breathing, it’s too late,” The Nurse said. 

  “He’s dead.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Side note: I also apologise for any medical inaccuracies. I’ve researched that once the trachea takes a brutal/sufficient amount of force and damage, you can in fact suffocate. 
> 
> It takes roughly seven minutes for a human being to die completely from suffocation. Three to four minutes for their heart to stop, another two until sufficient brain damage is done (but resuscitation is possible), and another one or two until they are completely dead. That is roughly the period of time in which John inflicts the damage and then stays rooted on the spot in shock, I probably should’ve clarified that. But I’m a lazy fuck.


End file.
